Somehow They're Still Officers
by kingofthewilderwest
Summary: Ahhhhhh yes. Team Mustang. The hand-selected, elite group of military officers who effectively spend their time… doing nonsense. My collection of FMA drabbles, particularly stories of Team Mustang shenanigans. Each oneshot rated individually.
1. Accents

**A/N I already uploaded "Accents" on FFN as a oneshot. Now that I'm creating this compilation of my FMA oneshots, I'm placing the drabble here, too.**

 **Rating: K**

 **I probably have better things to do with my degree, but as a linguist, I can't help but love language headcanons. For FMA, I imagine that Amestris follows some fairly typical dialectical patterns. Rural accents would develop in areas that make little contact with urban areas. There'd also be a dialectical distinction between people of lower and upper socioeconomic status. Dialects that fall outside of a "standard" urban upper middle class would have unique phonological features that give some peoples' pronunciations negative stigma. Speakers of these "nonstandard" dialects would pronounce many words in ways that could be considered "funny" or "embarrassing" to others (or themselves).**

 **I do want to note here that _all_ dialects _ARE_ equally grammatical, _all_ dialects are equally **CORRECT**, _all_ dialects are valid and beautiful, and there's NOTHING that makes one "better" than another. It's just cultural perception.**

 **Still. I find intriguing, even amusing, that many main characters in FMA would _have_ those "less than desirable" accents. Ed, Winry, Al, and Jean–coming from small Eastern towns out in the middle of nowhere–are no way in hell going to have the same accent as people from Central or Briggs. As for people like Roy Mustang… well… everything about his origin suggests he'd have some sort of stigmatized Central lower class inner city accent. Which is where the inspiration for this little drabble began…**

* * *

"I can tell no one's working," Lieutenant Hawkeye said as she stepped forward. The cluster of men before her were hunkered down and whispering, clearly hoping their quiet conversation could avoid detection from the colonel on the far side of the room. But Hawkeye, knowing what types of motivation prompted this quartet to whisper, asked them, with an expression so neutral it was actually intimidating, "What pointless topic is distracting you now?"

Breda kept a cool face. Havoc shrugged nonchalantly, but a betraying smile twitched around his cigarette. Fuery and Falman both had the conscience to wince.

It was Jean Havoc, of course, who dished out the details, not at all ashamed to be caught gossiping on pointless frivolities. "We're talking about the colonel's accent."

"Or what _should_ be his accent," Breda amended.

Hawkeye felt her eyebrows rising.

Still wilting under the lieutenant's stern stare, Fuery tried to justify their time debating _this_ rather than handling time-sensitive paperwork. "You see, you see, you can usually tell where people are from by their accent."

"The Standard Amestrian Dialect is heard in the center of the country, the northern regions, Central, and most large urban areas." Falman, as always, was able to recite precise information from memory. "Specifically, for those in the middle and upper classes. People from the lower class who live in inner city Central have a unique dialect, while…"

"You've got country bumpkins in the East like me," Havoc pointed to himself with a grin. Rather than cringing around the East's rural hick reputation, Jean here embraced it, drawing out his drawl with more emphasis than usual.

"So what does this have to do with any of our present investigations or reports?" Hawkeye asked.

"Nothing," several of the men admitted, while at the same time, Havoc insisted, "But what this _does_ have to do is with the colonel. And that's work-related." He gave his stretched excuse with an impish wink.

"I accidentally stumbled into information about Mustang's family from reports of one investigation downtown," Breda said. "The crime took place in the 'bar' of a certain Madame Christmas. Chris Mustang, who if I'm not wrong–and I know I'm not, because I just looked her up–was the colonel's guardian."

"Which means, given how he would've been raised, he should have an inner city accent," said Falman.

"Not the posh whatever-it-is he's using now," said Havoc. The second lieutenant, Hawkeye realized, was probably the most entertained by this prospect, as it would mean that he would no longer be the person in the room with the least desirable and most embarrassing accent. It would be the colonel.

Old memories drifted up from the back of Riza's mind. She thought about the teenager who'd studied alchemy with her father. He'd indeed had an inner city accent then, before he met Maes Hughes and tried to copy his best friend's upper middle class dialect best he could. By his early twenties, _most_ –though not all–of his childhood speech had been changed. But Hawkeye wasn't going to encourage her colleagues' conversation by bringing these memories up.

"I told you, I think he's hiding it," said Fuery. "You've heard how he says 'dog,' right? That's slightly off. The vowel's weird."

"I'd have to hear it again."

"What about 'coffee?' "

"Ohhhh. Oh yeah. I think you're right."

"No, you're imagining it. He doesn't say 'coffee' any different than I do."

"He _does_. Just listen for it next time!"

"And if you don't believe me on 'coffee,' try 'short.' He's messed that one up, too."

"You're right, you're right! I always thought that was just a weird quirk of his. But no. That's _totally_ the colonel hiding an accent."

"You guys are making things up. You're not any better than conspiracy theorists."

"Don't listen to him. We're so right."

"Look, we just need to pay closer attention. The evidence will be right in front of us. What're words that he'd pronounce different? Things like… uh… 'hot' and 'thought?' It's that 'aw' sound that gets changed, right?"

"Yes. That is one distinctive feature. Vowel shifts have lowered that vowel. And the 'æ' sound in words like 'black' are more likely to be diphthongized, and drawn out almost to the point a single syllable word sounds like two."

"Falman, you know we have no idea what you just said, right?"

Intense discussion persisted.

"If any of you have to work overtime because of this," Hawkeye said, finally turning away from the heated whispering session, "don't tell me I didn't warn you."

However, instead of returning to her own tasks, the lieutenant stepped straight toward the colonel's desk. Something about her brisk step alerted Falman, Fuery, Breda, and Havoc, and all of the men, sensing some unique internal motivation within Hawkeye, paused to watch the conversation.

"Sir, I'm heading down to the cafeteria for lunch."

"You don't have to tell me that, lieutenant."

"You look rather busy," Hawkeye observed. If she were indeed planning something, none of the eavesdroppers could yet determine it. This sounded like nothing but typical conversation between the two. "I was wondering if you'd like me to bring food up for you to eat at your desk."

"Oh. Well, aren't you thoughtful," he grinned.

Coincidentally, that word 'thoughtful'–which contained 'thought'–was one of the words the men had just been discussing. Glances passed between the four, facial expressions wordlessly debating and disputing whether they had heard anything phonologically unusual here.

"Something like a hamburger or a hot dog?"

"Couldn't complain to a hot dog."

Everyone at the other side of the room froze. Both the words 'hot' and 'dog' had been on their List of Possible Mispronunciations, too. 'Thoughtful' on its own could have been a handy accident. But getting Mustang to say 'hot' and 'dog' one after the other seemed _too_ well-timed to be mere chance.

"Something to drink?" Hawkeye continued.

"Coffee."

Fuery bit back a laugh.

"Anything in it?"

"You know me. Just black."

Gawking, Havoc slapped his hand on the desk–repeatedly–as he turned to mouth the words _black coffee_ to Fuery and Falman.

"Alright." Hawkeye gave a nod, but as she turned to go, commented, "I should be back soon, assuming the lines are short."

"At this time? They should be short. By the way, thanks, lieutenant."

She turned to leave. By this point, everyone sitting in the back of the room covered grins with hands clasped over their mouths, and half of them were also audibly sniggering. Mustang seemed completely oblivious to both their laughter and how Hawkeye had played him. Havoc was almost cackling, though, from the revelation of what had just passed. The fourth word from their list–and the fifth–and the _sixth_ –had all been pronounced… slightly strangely.

Still maintaining a perfectly even facial expression, Hawkeye stepped past them. She didn't turn to look anyone in the eye as she headed for the door. But all of them heard the comment she gave in a low voice.

"You should have heard him when he was sixteen."

And with that, Lieutenant Hawkeye left the room.


	2. Dog Sitting

**A/N: Posted on its own on FFN, too.**

 **Rating: K Plus for one swear.**

He said he knew what he was doing. And he meant that, mostly. Sure, he hadn't owned a dog before. But he'd played with his neighbor's pets when he was a child. Those dogs sat; they stayed; they rolled over; they listened; they were wonderful, loyal, obedient companions. He loved dogs! So how hard could a couple days of dog sitting be?

Thus he assured the first lieutenant it would be no problem, she could attend to out-of-town work while he enjoyed a rare weekend off, a rare vacation for just him and Black Hayate.

The weekend would be great.

Hawkeye had given him a surreptitious side glance before leaving the apartment, some suspicious gesture that _maybe_ she didn't believe he knew what he'd be doing. He waved farewell with a confident smile, but at the same time she paused, and with some strange reluctance said, "There's a box of dog treats in the top cupboard. Black Hayate's more obedient with an incentive. But please. Being firm is better. Use those sparingly."

"Of course. The pooch is well-behaved, anyway. Aren't you, boy?"

He knelt down toward the dog, whose tail wagged tentatively, and Mustang said, "Can you shake?"

Black Hayate looked at Mustang's palm. Black Hayate looked at Mustang's face. Black Hayate wagged his tail twice more. Black Hayate cocked his head to one side. Black Hayate did not shake.

Feeling somewhat self-conscious at the dog's lack of respect, and even more self-conscious the dog's owner was witnessing Mustang-brand uselessness, the colonel tried again.

"Shake."

Nothing.

"Shake?"

Hawkeye sighed.

He could certainly detect reluctance in that sigh.

She… didn't believe he knew what he was doing.

"Shake," she said, and at once, BraHa's paw plopped itself on top of Mustang's open palm.

"Uh. Well. See?" He gave an awkward laugh, scratching at the back of his head. "Obedient dog."

Hawkeye's stare was firm, unwavering. "Don't use all the treats, and please don't do anything stupid," she said one last time.

With that, she left the colonel to his duties.

The door closed before him.

He stood in the room alone with one small, innocent puppy, who stared at him with a combination of curiosity and confusion. Mustang, in turn, looked down to the dog, but his expression was one of pouty exasperation.

"You couldn't shake for me?" he whined to the dog. "Not even in front of your owner? Way to make me look bad." Apparently the commanding officer of a military base, who dictated orders to thousands of well-disciplined soldiers, could not garner the same authority for a four month old puppy. "Those were orders, dog."

Black Hayate gave a happy, carefree yip.

"Let's try this again."

It wasn't _just_ to cure his hurt ego, Mustang told himself. It wasn't so he could feel like the smarter species against one knee-high canine. Simply, he needed to get the dog to shake for a logical, level-headed purpose: to make sure that this dog he was watching would listen to him. It was imperative for Black Hayate to understand who the boss was. Standard dog-training procedures. That's all this was.

"Shake."

"Wooooof."

"That's an order, soldier."

"Brrrf."

The dog sat down, but none of this was actually _listening_ to what Mustang wanted. Why didn't the dog care what he had to say?!

Roy eyed the top cupboard, a sly grin pulling up on his face. _The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting._ Brilliant strategists knew how to employ resources to utmost efficacy. "Oh. Just you wait. Just you wait. I'll win this one, mutt. You'll be listening to me in a minute..."

* * *

The treats worked like alchemy. At once the dog transmuted from an idle tail-wagger to a loyal, obedient lackey. Feeling rather pleased and self-important, Mustang with his new-found dog-controlling superpowers convinced the puppy to wear a leash and follow him outdoors for a walk around the block. Being a dog owner was easy. Being a dog owner was magnificent. Ah, yes! He surely loved dogs! The ultimate, loyal followers, man's best friend indeed!

Mild-mannered Black Hayate would pause to sniff at flower beds alongside the sidewalks, creep toward small children who wanted to pet him, calmly follow Mustang's lead toward the nearest public park. The dog didn't tug at the leash. The dog didn't abruptly stop. Outside of their earlier "shake" incident, everything was proceeding perfectly. And if anything else _were_ to go wrong - which it wouldn't, not at all - then Mustang was prepared, the box of dog treats secured tactically inside his pants pocket.

To think the lieutenant hesitated leaving him with this dog!

A break in close-packed buildings and narrow alleys opened to a square of rolling green: one of East City's larger public parks. BraHa perked immediately, even before they had crossed the road and started strolling on the grass. Roy found himself relaxing once they stepped past benches and trees and wandered through the park. Glancing at a stick discarded on the ground, he began to formulate an idea.

"You like fetch?"

He paused for a second, analyzing the situation. This _would_ involve letting the dog go off-leash. But given as BraHa seemed so behaved - the dog was sniffing mildly at Roy's pants pocket even now - Roy couldn't see any harm letting the pup run free.

As the dog licked up a treat in one hand, Roy used the other to clip the leash off.

Just as he was about to chuck the stick, though, something happened.

The dog _launched_ himself away from Mustang, charged at an impossible speed across the lawn, yapping and barking with unadulterated enthusiasm. Roy found himself screaming at the top of his lungs. "SHIT! BLACK HAYATE! NO! NO! BAD DOG! NO NO NO NO NO NO! TREATS! I'VE GOT TREEEEAAAATS!"

Ecstatic dog howls pursued… a terrified squirrel.

A very frantic colonel raced after that. Past couples who stared, shocked, at the gallantly-charging dog sitter. Blundering past children playing ball. Leaping over the basket of one family's previously-peaceful picnic. Darting around other dog owners who calmly played with pups, no issues at all, no squirrels setting their canines barreling off to the other end of the green.

"No no no no no cooooome baaaaack!"

He almost face-planted into soil the second BraHa stopped. Tail wagging, the dog placed front paws against the trunk of a tree. A chittering squirrel hid in the branches above.

Roy gasped for breath.

"Alright… Alright. Leash… back… on…" he decided.

The dog hopped out of reach before he could finish that maneuver. Butt high in the air, BraHa gave a playful growl, then danced away again from the colonel's hand.

Oh. _Now_ the dog wanted to play with him.

Frustrated grin on his lips and teeth grinding under his smile, Mustang dug into his pants pocket. Time for treats. He wasn't giving the dog too many, right? And he _needed_ to catch Black Hayate before…

"Colonel?"

Mustang glanced up.

A tall, blond man, puffing a cigarette in his mouth, stared down at the spectacle between dog and dog sitter. Havoc was standing just a few feet away.

"Oh. Havoc."

"What do we have here?"

Mustang used the distraction as opportunity. With a hoot of success, he clipped the leash to Black Hayate's collar, then stood to greet his subordinate. Hopefully Havoc hadn't seen Mustang's earlier desperate dash across the park. Hopefully Havoc wouldn't notice the grass stains on Roy's knees, either.

"The lieutenant asked me to dog-sit this weekend."

" _You_?" Havoc said skeptically.

Mustang glared.

"Yes, me!"

"Wow. She's got _way_ more faith than I do."

"I know how to handle dogs," Mustang grumbled.

"Do you?"

Havoc pointed down.

Mustang looked down.

There was a leash. And a collar. But no dog.

Havoc looked out in the distance.

Mustang looked out in the distance.

There was the dog. Another squirrel. Halfway across the park.

"AUGH! Dumb dog!"

And as Mustang charged off again, shouting, hurling dog treats into the air and altogether forgetting to grab the collar, Havoc snorted.

"Pretty sure the dumb one's on the other end of the leash."

* * *

Keys jangling from outside came at exactly the wrong moment.

"Uhhhhhh…"

He couldn't say "Wait!" to the owner of her own apartment. She had a right to enter. She had the means of entering. She _was_ entering.

He still almost shouted "Wait!" anyway.

The words caught in his mouth, though. So did all the other words he could have spoken. Even when she piped up with a, "Hello? Colonel?" to find his location, he couldn't find anything useful to speak, and choked on nothing.

She found him like this, dumb and dumbfounded, seated on the floor of the bathroom.

Water everywhere.

Mud everywhere.

Shampoo everywhere.

And a suddenly, completely, perfectly obedient puppy, darting up to greet his owner.


	3. We Were Just Playing Cards

**A/N:** **Posted on its own on FFN, too.**

 **Rating: T (to be on the safe side) for language, and because... of course... someone's gotta get naked.**

 **I've never played poker, much less strip poker, but I couldn't resist the opportunity for fun. Much thanks to jayalaw for our conversation inspiring the topic!**

* * *

"What sort of idiocy _is_ this?"

Those words weren't _exactly_ a question. After all, anyone who stepped into the room for half a second would understand the exact brand of idiocy here. No witness could misunderstand this for a common military operation, nor would anyone in the guilty party be able to cover this through some self-redeeming, dignity-saving excuse.

Not with the half-empty bottles of alcohol resting on the table alongside playing cards... the various articles of clothing strewn across desk surfaces or wadded to the floor… the distracted officers seated around this mess… and the one lieutenant in particular who was sprawled carelessly across his chair, every inch of him quite, very, totally, unmistakably naked.

He seemed oblivious to their latest guest, attention instead concentrated on one of the men across him. With a glare he stretched his right hand out, straining toward a box held _barely_ out of reach, and over his companions' cackling voices demanded, "Gimme back those cigarettes!"

"You obviously don't know how to play this game!" Breda gestured below the man's torso with a hoot. "Let me make the rules clear to you again: you have to _earn_ these back!"

"No I don't! Nobody _wears_ cigarettes!"

"They were in your pants pockets!"

"That doesn't count!"

"Losing your pants means losing everything in their pockets, too! Give it up, Havoc!" Fuery pestered from Breda's side. "The only thing you have left to bet and lose is the one cigarette in your mouth!"

 _That_ prospect was too much for a ticked Havoc to handle. But just as he was pulling himself up, about to launch his bare ass across the table, everyone else... froze. Statues. All at once.

They had finally noticed their guest.

The powerful, towering, dominating, imposing, and entirely _properly dressed_ Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong.

Everyone was scrambling at once. Mustang rushed forward to greet their guest, perfect composure only broken by the fast pace at which he moved. In fact the colonel's posture was _almost_ a proud enough display to make his lack of shirt go unnoticed. But Falman chucked his cards away at the same time he tried to salute; Breda was ducking from Falman's sudden card shower; Fuery was launching pants and underwear in Havoc's face; and Lieutenant Hawkeye, obviously abashed to be in this room at all, was covering her eyes with her hand in what was either her life's longest sigh, or a pathetic attempt to hide her face and identity.

Not even the colonel's most well-acted dignity could cover for the shitstorm transpiring behind him. Mustang's spoken greeting could barely be heard above the sounds of everyone else clambering, frantic.

Their guest was... to say the least... _unimpressed_.

"Humph!" she said in way of return, refusing to take the colonel's offered handshake. She peered around his shoulders to study his elite, hand-picked, highly-specialized, well-trained, perfectly disciplined officers. Two of them were now playing tug-of-war with Havoc's underpants.

"...our night off during a rather uneventful week, so for some fun, we decided to…"

Armstrong cut straight through Roy Mustang's excuse. "Aren't some of these men supposed to be on duty?" she jabbed.

He paused.

One of the personnel assigned for evening duty was, in fact, the man who had finally learned to be self-conscious about his naked ass, and was scrambling to reclothe himself before Armstrong could continue skeptically judging his jewels. Clearly, the Ice Queen's cold stare to his crotch was _not_ something that would boost confidence.

The other man assigned to tonight's late shift might have been the team's commanding officer.

Mustang, turning away from the spectacle and awkwardly scratching at his forehead, decided it best not to answer Olivier's question.

He instead plowed past the topic. The colonel swept his hands toward the game table in poorly attempted distraction tactics. His smile might have been winsome in less incriminating circumstances. "Whatever your reason for visiting East City, Major General, I'm sure your busy work leaves you with little free time," he said, voice silky smooth, "but how about one quick game with us before…"

"Sure."

That single syllable word came out gruff, hard, but it was in fact accepting his invitation. The colonel, wide-eyed, faked composure gone, could only gawk. After her long history of harsh dinner rejections, all her harrumphs and judgmental affronts, all her clearly-expressed low opinions of Colonel Roy Mustang, how could he have expected she would say "yes" here? Actually say "yes" to _this_?

Hawkeye was already excusing herself from the poker table to reassemble their cards. Their dealer needed the tools to the game. But the second Fuery and Falman tried to stand, they were met with the major general's unwavering frown, a glower so intense that a second later they were withering back in their seats again. There was no escape. Not for them. Not for Breda. Definitely not for Havoc. And not for Mustang, either.

Cards were dealt out for a new round, a new game of bluffs, bets, and blunders. Yet despite resuming their previous recreational activity, nothing felt the same as before. The room's atmosphere had shifted, shifted in such a way that, despite the soldiers now being fully clothed, every member of the party seemed to be shivering more from the chills. Even Havoc seemed uncomfortable at the prospect of removing a coat.

It was hard to say exactly what all changed. The environmental differences were subtle. Somehow everyone's faces appeared slightly more revealing. Somehow the cards played into different men's favors. Somehow the gamers' strategies were less stable than before. And there was… _something_ … goading Fuery into making other moves beyond safer folding strategies… _something_ that ignited Falman to take more risks. _Something_ that made Breda's confident logistics fail. _Something_ that played against Mustang's hand in particular.

Something cursing them all with impossibly bad results.

Fuery got away with discarding first his glasses, Breda his shoes, and Mustang his pocket watch. But the game continued past that.

Everyone watched as the colonel shouldered off his jacket.

Another round.

He set his first boot to the side.

Another round.

A second boot gone.

Another round.

The socks, gone. The colonel's face wasn't quite so confident as it had been in games before. Was that sweat on his forehead?

Another round.

He paused, reaching for the collar buttons of his white shirt. He glanced quickly over at the Major General, whose unwavering stare hurried his hand.

Another round.

Mustang paused longer this time before acting on another lost bet.

Another round.

Wasn't this… supposed to be a game of chance?

Loot grew to a laundry pile before the Major General. She leaned back in her chair, nonchalant, a relaxed posture which only made her seem more impossibly intimidating. And as she began to collect her share of jackets, and shoes, and socks, and even the colonel's two white gloves… her unblinking facial expression finally changed.

Just a small thing. Creeping up on her lips. The hint of a smile.

* * *

"You know how frozen the north is," Hawkeye commented to a colonel even more uninterested in paperwork than typical. Morning light streamed through the office windows, but Mustang appeared not to notice that, nor notice the document before him, nor notice the lieutenant's comments coming from beside him. Only after he gave a belated grunt did Riza realize he had, in fact, heard her.

"So it's not saying much, sir. Could you please quit sulking and get to your paperwork?"

His right hand twitched, but did not grab the pen resting near it.

It was becoming increasingly clear that no task would get done today. Not from the colonel. This sulking he exhibited now surpassed _any_ time that Hawkeye had called him useless in the rain.

Then again.

It wasn't every day that a Major General looked down at your crotch, raised her eyebrows, and commented flatly:

"I've seen bigger icicles in Briggs."


	4. You Probably Shouldn't Read That

**A/N: Don't judge me; I wrote this sugar-high at 3 AM. Quality not guaranteed. ;)**

 **Rating: T for language and vague sexual references.**

* * *

The second Colonel Mustang left the room, Edward Elric darted for the desk.

Al stood up, confused and concerned, while his brother dived into every drawer, fishing out folders, papers, pens, reports, and what seemed to be an _endless_ supply of paperclips. Seriously, an endless supply of paperclips: when Ed tried to chuck them out, he created a long-lasting hailstorm that clattered against his brother's metal shoulders. That shower lasted over ten seconds. And still the desk-searching continued. A few more sheets of paper. Fifteen hundred more paperclips. A paperweight. Five hundred more paperclips. Something that resembled an orange peel but was distinctly the wrong color. Three more paperclips. A paper airplane made from what might have been a confidential military report. Another paper airplane that was definitely a confidential military report.

Before Al could ask what Ed intended with this ransacking, the elder Elric brother shouted "BINGO!"

His hunched back straightened.

Ed brandished a simple leather journal.

Excitement twinkled in Edward's eyes.

Al knew that look. He shuffled forward, standing clear of the new mountain range of paperclips circling Mustang's desk, but tried to catch a glimpse at what his brother held.

"That's the colonel's alchemy research, isn't it?"

"Yup!"

"What do you need it for?"

"For something useful, of course." Ed buried his nose deep into Mustang's spider-scratched handwriting. "Don't you think fire transmutation would be cool?"

"I think 'cool' and 'useful' are two different things."

Ed ignored the comment. He mumbled a few lines under his breath, rolled his eyes at whatever he saw, and then flipped a few pages forward. The only thing Al could catch was "damn colonel" before Ed's muttering subsided.

They stood this way for several minutes: Al awkwardly hovering beyond the desk, Ed scrutinizing the text of unknown alchemical secrets.

Ed suddenly spoke.

"Get a load of this," he scoffed. He deepened his voice, mockingly imitating a radio advertiser - or maybe a certain colonel - and bellowed out the tag line: "Roy Mustang: his flames aren't ALL that's hot!"

"Brother…" Al sighed in ashamed exasperation. "Be serious and read the journal. Don't make something like that up."

"I'm _not_." Ed shoved the book in his brother's face, where Al could, indeed, find the colonel's blatant self-advertisement. Any hope that it wasn't an innuendo vanished. Armor withered in second-hand embarrassment. A once-proud suit of steel crumpled into a ball of discarded tin foil. Corrosion was not the key to deteriorating metal: all that was needed was a few lines of Colonel Mustang's creative writing.

Al handed the material back to his brother.

"He… he coded his alchemy research as a date journal."

"Shouldn't have expected anything else from that pervert."

Ed made sure to emphasize the word "pervert" with particular disdain.

The other Elric, however, spoke with discomfort. Distinct discomfort. "Brother, there might be an alchemy code in there, but this isn't very appropriate!"

"Eh. It's nothing you don't know already."

"Brother…"

"I think the word 'fuck' here is coded to mean 'transmutation'…"

"Brother…"

"Does every time he bang someone mean that his transmutation was a success, or…"

"BROTHER!"

"Wow, he even has his team coded in here. _No_ clue who 'Bradykins' might be…"

"BROTHER?!"

"Al, I'm trying to concentrate. Okay, so, Breda's boobs…"

"BROTHER, THE COLONEL IS BACK!"

The entire room fell silent. Slowly, slowly, slowly, Ed forced his neck to turn. He twisted it away from the pages of the book. Looked past the desk. Noticed a pair of crossed arms. Noticed a black-eyed stare. Realized that Mustang was standing just a few feet away, boots buried in paperclips, as he glared down at the younger alchemist.

Well… perhaps 'glared' wasn't the perfect term here. There was some disappointment. Lots of annoyance. And some… was that… bemusement?

"What was that about boobs, Fullmetal?" he said, loudly enough that everyone else entering the room could hear him. It seemed that Hawkeye, Havoc, Breda, Falman, and Fuery were all returning from a lunch break. "I know puberty makes you -"

Ed snapped the alchemy book shut with one hand and slammed it into Mustang's chest. "Nothing," he hissed. Knowing he'd now long outstayed his welcome, and that Mustang would probably say something _very_ untoward unless situations changed, Ed began stomping for the door, forcing Al to tiptoe after him.

But before Ed could slam the office door behind him, he heard voices igniting conversation. Mustang's officers appeared to be talking all at once, heating up to grill and taunt their superior.

One loud voice rose clear above the rest.

A bit more accusatory than the others.

Heymans Breda.

"SO THEN. COLONEL. DIDN'T KNOW. YOU CARED.

 _"WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT MY BOOBS?"_


	5. The Second Call

**A/N: My end of an art trade with the illustrious inhonoredglory! Thanks so much for doing this trade with me. I love engaging in creativity together and seeing what your mind produces. May there be more adventures as these in our near future!**

 **A/N I know Mustang was still in the East and hadn't transferred before Hughes died. I also know that Hughes probably didn't walk far from Central Command to reach the phone booth, and thus anyone who found his body would be able to report to the military without disturbing anything. THAT LOGIC ASIDE! Who doesn't want to imagine Mustang, after hearing Hughes' silent call, rushing out to find his friend? Finding Hughes' body first? And… with no other phone around to report the murder… well. Suffering through THAT unpleasant reality.**

 **Rating: K Plus for some blood and a dead person I guess?**

* * *

He reached out his hand to pick up the phone. And felt blood.

In some ways, it was a familiar sensation, the subtle stick of thick fluid gluing his hand to what he held. Injuries happened, bodies bled, blood stuck to skin and surfaces: this was nothing new. But he'd reached for the receiver expecting a cool, slick surface – not the _warmth_ of splattered death.

 _God, it's still warm_.

Wet warmth and metallic cold intermingled in his hand as he exhaled a shaky breath, a startled breath, a pained breath. He had to release _something_ – either phone or breath – before the horror of the circumstance broke through to him. For now, the situation's surrealism was enough to numb his mind. He couldn't think, couldn't process, couldn't sense his own deadened thoughts – just the buzz of thick, thick fog. And now he took advantage of it, stifled himself here, where sensationless he could be detached enough to cope.

He forced himself to keep his hand on the receiver. The sooner he finished this, the sooner he could step outside the phone booth. Leave. But it felt like he stood inside an upright coffin. For a moment, there were not one but two dead souls inside.

The body leaned against his legs. He was trying to straddle his feet around it, impossible to do in such cramped quarters, and any shift at all bumped him against that solid, unmoving mass. If he looked down now, he would see the late night shadows of that corpse slumped against the booth's back wall; and if he shifted to the side, the light of a streetlamp outdoors would sneak through the windows, to reflect off the surface of rectangular glasses lenses.

In that light, it'd be enough to see the body.

Face, already paling.

His best friend:

Dead.

"Hughes… I'm. I'm… sorry…"

Roy stood inside a phone booth with the corpse of his best friend, hand holding onto a phone drenched in the blood of his dead best friend, a bloody phone, a still-warm phone – _the last warmth he'd get from Hughes would be the feeling of that_ blood _on the phone_ – in the midst of this reality he couldn't afford to believe this was reality. Roy couldn't handle glancing down. Couldn't handle holding the phone. Couldn't think. Couldn't call. Couldn't respond. Couldn't report the crime. Couldn't wait. Couldn't stay. Couldn't stand. Couldn't think. Couldn't meet with the coming MPs to bear witness. Couldn't process. Couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. Couldn't think.

And yet… that's what he had to do.

He exhaled a second time. This breath was shaky, too. But it was enough to find impossible internal strength inside him, and dial.

Mustang didn't remember choosing to speak, but he heard himself talking. Reporting. Admitting he'd marred the evidence, but that there was no other way to call and report. It hopefully sounded objective to the military listening on the other end.

And then the chore was done.

He could leave the booth now, escape the claustrophobia of sharing nine squared feet with a dead man. Ongoing experience would fade way to past memory.

But like any memory… the stains of that experience would affect him onward.

The blood still stuck to his hands, and when he stepped away, footprints drenched in red trailed him out of doors.


End file.
